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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28095033">Unfilial Creatures</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/wadi_river/pseuds/wadi_river'>wadi_river</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Absurd Amounts of Political Worldbuilding, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dysfunctional Relationships, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Intergenerational conflict, Kink Meme, Parent/Child Incest, Post-Canon, The Absolute Worst Fankid</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 11:56:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,020</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28095033</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/wadi_river/pseuds/wadi_river</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Upon her death, Edelgard passes the throne to the most qualified individual like she said she would. Her daughter, bereft of her mother, her mother's ambition, and her mother's throne, is determined to at least have her mother's minister.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hubert von Vestra &amp; Original Character(s), Hubert von Vestra/Original Female Character(s), past Edelgard von Hresvelg/Hubert von Vestra, past Edelgard von Hresvelg/Original Male Character</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>FE3H Kink Meme</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I live. I fully expect to finish this monstrosity. Stay tuned.</p><p>The original kinkmeme prompt, which I've followed somewhat loosely:</p><p>Edelgard succumbs to the burden of having two Crests shortly after the war, but not before giving birth to a daughter. Hubert raises her on the same politics that Edelgard believed in, hoping to convince her to enact the same reforms on succession that Edelgard hoped to, but as their daughter grows to resemble Edelgard both in appearance and personality, he finds himself distressingly attracted to the liege he misses so much.</p><p>+ if their daughter doesn't actually know that he's her father, for whatever reason<br/>++ if she initiates<br/>+++ if Hubert refers to her as Edelgard or titles he might have used for Edelgard during sex</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sieghild von Hresvelg fights resentment at how easily the Emperor approves her travel to the Isle of Lycaon. But why wouldn't he? Why would he ever feel threatened by her request? He is Dietfried II, hand-chosen successor of the late beloved Emperor, who has demonstrated his political acumen with the neutralization of the late Emperor's powerful in-laws, his impartial justice with his prosecution of the very Minister of the Imperial Household for his bloody deeds, his prowess at war with the successful repulsion of the Dagdans, his dedication to peace in the ten year since.<br/><br/>And she is only Edelgard's daughter.<br/><br/>They're in his office. "I'm happy to see you in a better state these days," Dietfried says seriously. On her deathbed, Edelgard had asked him to be as a brother to Sieghild, and he has never, in his life, disappointed Edelgard's expectations. "This trip will do you good."<br/><br/>"You think so?" Sieghild says ironically.<br/><br/>Heavily, Dietfried removes his signet ring. "My actions ten years ago were necessary for the future of the empire...but I've always regretted all I've taken from you. I only hope this trip can bring you some small measure of the peace you seek. I would have suggested you visit sooner, but it would have been...improper for me to be the one to bring it up."<br/><br/>He believes the old rumors, Sieghild muses, as she watches him imprint his seal at the bottom of the writ of travel. As for herself? She'd tried to convince herself, when the idea first germinated in the dark soil of her mind, how terrible it would be if she later received incontrovertible evidence that Hubert von Vestra was her biological father. How utterly horrible. How scandalous.<br/><br/>It hadn't stuck.<br/><br/>Emperor Edelgard was wise, to choose her successor based on merit, not blood. Sieghild is enough her mother's daughter that she can face this truth head-on as it bludgeons her day in and day out.<br/><br/>"You should conduct your travels as soon as possible," says Dietfried. "The waters up north grow treacherous later in the year. I'll send Imperial Guards to accompany you, if you wish--"<br/><br/>"That won't be necessary," Sieghild laughs, as she tucks the writ safely away. "Bandits and pirates under your rule? Perish the thought!"<br/><br/><br/>#<br/><br/><br/>A week later, Sieghild watches the Isle of Lycaon approach from the bow of a ship. The north seas are as gray and miserable as the books say, the island as pitiable. From this distance, she can blot out that glorified pebble with her thumb--if her arm remains steady. This entire voyage, her stomach has heaved with the sea.<br/><br/>A fine place for an exile.<br/><br/>When she was younger, her rhetoric tutor had made her study Dietfried's speech from the trial. The listing of Hubert von Vestra's crimes, the kidnappings, the torture, the killings in the night--note the skillful use of parallelism. The reprehensible services of House Vestra had no place in the new Fodlan. Neither his noble blood nor his favor with the former Emperor were sufficient reason to stay his execution.<br/><br/><em>However</em>, Dietfried had added, the Marquis Vestra's role in the overthrow of the Church could not be understated, nor the desperate deeds committed by many others at the time. Dietfried would not sacrifice him as a scapegoat; his blood could not wash others' hands clean. The sins belonged to all the empire, and it was the duty of all to atone for and transcend them in the dawning new world they had wrought. The Emperor suggested exile for the remainder of the marquis's life, a proposal which was readily taken up and ratified by both Councils.<br/><br/>This will be the first time in ten years that Sieghild has seen Hubert von Vestra.<br/><br/>The subsequent bolt of terror sends her retching over the side of the ship. Oh, saints, what is she doing?<br/><br/>All the fear that she should have felt earlier seems to be making up for lost time. She wobbles into the cabin to make herself presentable. Wobbles back out. The island crawls toward them at a snail's pace. She pulls her cloak tightly around her and feels cold to her guts anyway.<br/><br/>The guards on the dock accept Sieghild's letter with nothing more than a cursory glance. Behind them is a rotund, middle-aged matron, who rushes forth to clasp Sieghild's hands warmly. "Oh, welcome, milady!" Sieghild hopes the woman can't feel her sweating through her gloves. "We've been waiting for you! I'm Clotilde, housekeeper to Marquis Vestra. He wanted to come down and greet you in person, but I'm afraid he can't make the trip today." Clotilde tilts her chin up meaningfully at the lead-gray sky. "Milord's old wounds flare up in this weather."<br/><br/>Understandable, if less than ideal. The path leading to the old stone tower is a long and narrow one, snaking up the side of a steep, rocky hill, and it drags out Sieghild's ordeal. She replies only halfheartedly to Clotilde's chatter, her chest tight with more than exertion.<br/><br/>They still frighten children with stories of Hubert von Vestra, back home. His cat feet, which could pad up walls and over roofs without a sound. His witch eyes, which could see through your skin and tell your lies by the twitching of your heart. The legend had only grown in his exile.<br/><br/>When he looks at her, he's going to see a farce.<br/><br/>But, Sieghild thinks grimly, putting one foot in front of the other, what else is new?<br/><br/>She's shaky enough that she keeps her gaze fixed on the ground, the better to watch her footing. So she doesn't realize she's at the top until she nearly runs into the man.<br/><br/>Startled, apology at the ready, she looks up into wide, shocked eyes.<br/><br/>"Edelgard?" he says.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>See bottom of post for content warnings. Please accept the premise that there's birth control but no paternity tests in Fodlan. I promise to drop the bombshell at a dramatic later point.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Is this what it felt like to be her, thinks Sieghild, a little stunned. There's alchemy enough in Hubert von Vestra's brimstone-colored eyes to make a tigress out of a bad-tempered housecat. Someone worthy of devotion, reverence, longing—<br/><br/>But he's so tall that she has to look up at an untenable angle to meet his eyes. Her hood topples back, revealing drab, sparrow-brown hair.<br/><br/>Slowly, he blinks, as if waking from a dream. His expression morphs into a far more familiar one, one of somewhat awkward courtesy: <em>I know you're supposed to be someone I feel some way about.</em> How do you greet a princess in a world where princesses are obsolete? Your lover's daughter, whom your lover so nobly placed a distant second in her priorities? Possibly <em>your</em> daughter, if the Emperor had been truly, uncharacteristically reckless with her marriage alliance, when there's no way to know for certain, when it's never been in anyone's interests to know for certain?<br/><br/>"My lady Sieghild," Hubert says. "I apologize. My eyes aren't what they used to be."<br/><br/>His mistake is forgivable. <em>Every bit as lovely as Edelgard in her youth,</em> the courtiers say about Sieghild—for lack of anything else to praise. She shares the same slight build, the delicate features, the pale violet eyes. Hubert hasn't seen her since she was a girl, and even then, only rarely. Natural, that he'd associate this face with another.<br/><br/>But it's also clear that ten years have left him much diminished, as he said. His hair has gone ashen gray; overgrown and tied back, it brushes the collar of his longcoat. The northern wind has scoured lines across his face and hollows under his stark cheekbones. In a few more years, it may leave nothing but a skull. The earlier light has dimmed from his gaze; if eyes are windows to the soul, he's a house long abandoned by its master. Sieghild remembers what Duchess Aegir had said, the words she'd overheard those months ago that had spurred her on this mad undertaking. <em>He looks like a man waiting to die.</em><br/><br/>A thrill of strange tenderness replaces Sieghild's earlier fear. She accepts his apology graciously, following him into the tower. He walks with a limp, she notes. It's been many years since Hubert von Vestra scaled citadels in the dead of night. "I hope I haven't made you stand out there for long."<br/><br/>"Hardly, compared to the trouble you've gone to, journeying all this way to the home of a disgraced exile. To what do I owe the honor?"<br/><br/>"Oh, the honor is mine," she insists. "Can't I pay my respects to my Emperor mother's faithful and best-beloved servant?"<br/><br/>He hesitates at this response, but happily, they're interrupted by men from the ship bringing up her luggage. She jumps into directing them about with Clotilde's help. Her personal belongings go in the guest room; her gift remains downstairs. <br/><br/>"A small token of thanks for your hospitality," she says, turning to Hubert with hand on hip. "Morfis plum wine, 1198 vintage."<br/><br/>He's not looking at the crate. He's watching her, eyes haunted.<br/><br/>Sieghild smiles. "Shall we sit down?"<br/><br/>#<br/><br/>The rain considerately waits until evening to announce itself, muffled to a distant murmur by the tower's stone sides. Inside, Sieghild makes herself at home. The tower is sparsely furnished, yet the chairs in front of the fireplace are surprisingly well-made and soft-padded. She suspects intervention on the part of the marquis's old friends.<br/><br/>"I was surprised to hear that you're staying for the remainder of the month," Hubert says. "There's not much to do on the island, especially for one accustomed to the entertainments of Enbarr."<br/><br/>Sieghild laughs, and takes a sip of the plum wine—served piping hot, as is traditional. "Do you think I'll grow bored? Seems unlikely, when I'm in such excellent company."<br/><br/>It may just be the alcohol, but she swears she sees a faint heat on the marquis's cheeks. "You flatter me, my lady."<br/><br/>"Never! I hope you'll show me around. It'll be a refreshing change of pace from the capital."<br/><br/>"That was my original plan for today, but regretfully, the weather failed to cooperate." He inclines his head toward the window, and the rain outside. "Hopefully tomorrow. I can easily show you what little there is of the island in a morning."<br/><br/>The conversation proceeds. They're virtual strangers, with nothing in common but the despair of certain mutual acquaintances, but Sieghild at least wields the latest news from Enbarr. And certainly, it helps that the wine is excellent. Hubert is a rusty conversationalist—she supposes he's not had much opportunity in the last ten years—so she has to expend a little extra effort, smoothing over pauses, leading them into fruitful topics. <br/><br/>The sound of his quiet, disused voice is more than worth it. She remembers exploring the forgotten passages of the Imperial Palace as a child, the delight of running one's hand over some dust-encased relic and finding a sculpted face underneath, a painted eye. She's uncovering something here, too, excavating something faded and buried out of Hubert von Vestra. <br/><br/>It's funny how things work out. She couldn't have skipped the miserable mired years and come here earlier; a younger, less determined, less-experienced-in-every-sense Sieghild von Hresvelg wouldn't have stood a chance against a younger Hubert von Vestra not yet worn down by grief and exile. <br/><br/>But now? She leans in, hand tucked under chin, the better to watch firelight flash across his gaze. He's <em>looking</em>, whether he wants to or not.<br/><br/>He averts his eyes, and takes a long drink from his glass.<br/><br/>#<br/><br/>When it's time, when they stand, Sieghild feigns a stagger. "Oh dear," she says breathily, clutching her chair. "I've drunk more than I should have, I think. Could you help me up those stairs?"<br/><br/>Slowly, the marquis proffers his arm. Sieghild's hand closes around it with the triumph of talons.<br/><br/>She finds every excuse to sway drunkenly against him as they climb the stairs. "So sorry," she simpers, pressing against his side as if for support. He stares ahead, but doesn't pull away. She watches the mesmerizing flutter of pulse at his bone-white throat. <br/><br/>They reach the landing. Hubert allows himself to be led a little further, through the open doorway of her room. Then a little further. <br/><br/>She turns to him, drawing her thumb meaningfully over the inside of his wrist. Their gazes meet.<br/><br/>"I am not known for mercy," he rasps. "But for the sake of your mother, I will inform you that you are dangerously naive if you think I can be seduced into disloyalty."<br/><br/>Sieghild stares. <br/><br/>Then she bursts into laughter. "Oh. Oh, saints. You think I'm here because I want you to help me overthrow Dietfried."<br/><br/>She's not even offended. In that moment, with that glitter in his eyes, Hubert von Vestra had never more looked like how she remembers him—not the old, tired exile, but the terrible, magnificent man who'd stood at her mother's right hand. That expression, for her! She's honored, truly. <br/><br/>Though his expression is rapidly sliding into one of confusion. Sieghild affectionately takes his hand in both of hers. "I suppose you've been away from Enbarr," she sighs. "No, heavens, no. Dietfried has been doing wonderfully, while I, infamously, have not been. I'm neither selfish nor skilled enough for an usurpation. He sits safe on his throne, where you and my Emperor mother labored so valiantly to place him.<br/><br/>"No," she says again, leaning in, looking up into his dilated eyes. "He can have my mother's throne. My mother's respect and regard. They will never be mine. But I refuse to be left empty-handed. <em>I will have my mother's Minister of the Imperial Household.</em>"<br/><br/>"Absurd," he says, breathing sharply. "How absurd."<br/><br/>"Is it?" Sieghild reaches up, cups his face in her hand. "You could've summoned Clotilde to help me to my room. Really, you could've called a stop to my little game at any point this evening. Surely it didn't take so long for you to discover my intentions. So," she challenges, "why didn't you?"<br/><br/>When she kisses him, he doesn't resist.<br/><br/>#<br/><br/>Hubert von Vestra looks as spectacular as she remembers, spread out naked on a bed.<br/><br/>There had been a particular wardrobe in the Emperor's rooms—she wonders if Dietfried kept it. Her mother was supposed to return at vespers that day, but of course some official business or another had held her up. Sieghild's bedtime had come and gone, and her governess was calling her name. Sieghild had hidden herself in there, curled up in a pile of silks, breathing in the rose-and-violet of her mother's perfume.<br/><br/>She doesn't remember falling asleep, but she must have. Next she knew, she was opening her eyes to the sound of soft laughter, from the hair's breadth that lay between the wardrobe doors. Black hair, bare skin, luminous with sweat and firelight. The laugh trailed off into a gasp. <br/><br/>She'd bitten her own wrist to keep from making sound.<br/><br/>This is far better, because it's her on top of him this time. He's older, and grayer, but that's what makes this feel—right, fair, fitting. A shadow of his past self, to complement a shadow of her mother.<br/><br/>He lies there stiffly. His prick is having some trouble, between age and the alcohol, Sieghild supposes, but she doesn't mind. She plans to take her time. What are minutes, even hours, compared to years?<br/><br/>Her teeth graze his jaw and throat, drawing hoarse little sounds from him. He tries, desperately, not to look at her; his hands curl, as if to keep himself from reaching out. <br/><br/>She marks her place with bruises before trailing lower. He's grown so thin, his ribs stark under bloodless skin. She likes the way they shudder and heave when she finds a sensitive spot—and he's very sensitive. "How long has it been?" she murmurs. He only pants, but she can guess.<br/><br/>She maps his skin, his scars like frost on glass. By the time she leaves, she wants to have known every inch of him, taken every liberty there is. Her blood runs hot with the idea. Strands of brown hair escape from her hairstyle, straggling over her face; she straightens and yanks out her pins, to be done, tossing her head so her hair unravels in a wild cascade.<br/><br/>Hubert, staring, makes a sound of physical agony.<br/><br/>This is what breaks him, this unintentional, unerring echo of a dead woman. Suddenly he's surging up, reaching for her, clutching at her, as if he's on the brink of drowning. His eyes are wild. His erection burns against her knee.<br/><br/>"Please," he says. <br/><br/>A roaring fills her ears—<br/><br/>She rides him. Her nails score his shoulders. Her harsh pants mingle with his frantic animal sounds. His eyes are glassy, his lashes wet with tears.<br/><br/>For once, she thinks. <br/><br/>For once in her life, she is Edelgard's inheritor. Someone looked at her and saw—enough.<br/><br/>That thought is the one that takes her over the edge.<br/><br/>Afterwards, Sieghild topples off him and sprawls bonelessly across the bed. Vaguely, she recognizes that she's sticky and sore, but she couldn't get up if she tried. Everything is a haze of rare, unfamiliar contentment.<br/><br/>Hubert lies beside her, staring at the ceiling. She wiggles closer, nestling herself against his bony side. <br/><br/>He might have said something; she's not sure. She's already drifting off into a dreamless sleep.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Content warnings: dubcon, reference to accidental voyeurism by then-underage character, father/daughter goes without saying.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>If you've read this far I probably don't need to give further content warnings.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sieghild wakes to sunlight on her face.</p><p>Scrunching her nose, she throws an arm over her eyes and rolls over—and finds the bed empty. Hubert had left her while she slept.</p><p>But when she puts her hand to the indentation, she finds it still very faintly warm.</p><p>She smiles to herself. She shifts over, nestling her cheek where his had rested, and slips effortlessly back into sleep.</p><p>#</p><p>By the time she gets up, half the morning is over—but at least it's still morning. She was worse in Enbarr. What was there to get up for, after all?</p><p>Here, at least, anticipation tugs her toward her dressing table. She'd derived weeks of entertainment from planning her wardrobe for this trip: how to gird herself for the unfriendly weather of the Isle of Lycaon without sacrificing her vanity? In the end she'd erred on the side of practicality when choosing the cut of her dresses; her face would be doing most of the work for her, after all. She dabs perfume at her pulse points, rose-and-violet, before departing her room.</p><p>"Good morning!" she calls out cheerfully, but Clotilde alone awaits her downstairs. "Where's Marquis Vestra?"</p><p>"I'm afraid milord is indisposed this morning," Clotilde says, smiling. "He left me with instructions to show you the area around the tower in his stead. Would you like some breakfast first?"</p><p>Sieghild doesn't bother with concern for his "indisposition"; she has no doubt he's making excuses to avoid her. She'll indulge him for the moment, she decides. She's still in a good mood from the previous night, and on such a small island, it's not like he can run very far. "Breakfast will be lovely," she says, smiling back.</p><p>Breakfast is not lovely. Clotilde brings her tepid porridge and salt fish gone faintly rancid, poor fare for one accustomed to Enbarr cuisine. Sieghild's hungry enough to dig in gamely anyway, reminding herself of the limitations of an exile's lifestyle, but nonetheless feels a sense of relief when her spoon scrapes the bottom of her bowl.</p><p>After that, she's eager to head out into the morning. Sunlight dazzles her eyes as she emerges; after the rain, the sky is blue and clear as crystal, the distant waves as glittering. Dark forest circles the hill they're on, circled in turn by a strip of rocky shore. "The outbuildings are all on the leeward side of the hill, to protect them from the storms," chatters Clotilde. "Can you imagine what a fright it would be to have the greenhouse anywhere else?"</p><p>A row of storehouses and barracks come into view first as they stroll along the ridge of the hill. Most of them sit weather-beaten and abandoned; the detachment of Imperial Guards stationed here has been much reduced in recent years. The concern was never that the former Minister of the Imperial Household would try to escape the island, but that someone would make a go of assassinating him. In the early days of his exile, his unnatural death would have looked terribly suspicious for the Emperor—had he wanted to silence a keeper of dangerous secrets, despite all his noble words? Nowadays, with Dietfried secure on his throne and Hubert von Vestra fading from memory to legend in Enbarr, the man is increasingly free to live and die as he wishes.</p><p>"It's not an easy posting, four months at a time in this lonely corner of the world," Clotilde says, and waves at a passing guard. He waves back, calling out something in heavily accented Adrestian. "The night before they rotate back to the mainland, every time, you can hear them drunk and celebrating from all the way inside the tower. They're never bad folks, though. They help out around the place. They have respect for milord. They don't make trouble."</p><p>Sieghild smiles and nods vaguely. Something's nagging at her. But before she can figure out what it is, Clotilde's striding forward. "Marcellius! Don't just hide away!"</p><p>The storehouse on the far side of the row has been converted into a greenhouse, its structural beams and timbers retained, its original roof and siding material replaced with glass. Men are at work expanding the end closer to them, extending two of the walls so that they abut the storehouse next to it.</p><p>A small, balding man stands in front, supervising two burly soldiers as they lift a pane of glass into place. He turns to them at the sound of his name. "Ah, hello, Clotilde. And—" he peers uneasily through his glasses—"our fabled guest, eh."</p><p>"Sieghild von Hresvelg," she says graciously.</p><p>For some reason, her attention makes Marcellius's shoulders draw up defensively, like a turtle trying to duck into its shell--should she be flattered? "Well, this is the greenhouse. I would show you our plants, but I'm afraid I'm otherwise occupied at the moment. Perhaps some other time. Clotilde, could you—"</p><p>Then one of the soldiers says something to the other, and Sieghild's heart skips a beat.</p><p>Oh, she's dense, to have taken this long to realize. The guards speak Adrestian with the harsh vowels of the hinterlands, but both Clotilde and Marcellius's accents are pure Enbarr. They're not part of them. They don't rotate four months at a time with them. For all she knows, they've been here since the beginning. They're—</p><p>She looks up sharply. Marcellius is watching her, Clotilde too. Her smile is unchanged, but there's <em>something</em> in her eyes that make three words go through Sieghild's mind: <em>Vestra Sorcery Engineers.</em></p><p>Well. Sieghild will have to assume they saw quite a bit.</p><p>"I don't suppose you're as happy to see me as Marquis Vestra is," she says, keeping her voice light. Clotilde's smile doesn't budge. "But I hope you'll respect his wishes regarding me."</p><p>"Wherever his wishes may turn, Lady Sieghild," Clotilde says, and that's definitely a threat no matter how pleasant her tone. But Marcellius's gaze darts past Sieghild, toward the tower.</p><p>She turns to follow his gaze. High up on the roof, a thin, dark figure faces their way, silhouetted against the sky.</p><p>She smiles and waves.</p><p>"Wherever his wishes may turn! Now, I think that's enough of an outing for today, don't you? I'm going to burn if I stay out any longer, with all this sun!"</p><p>#</p><p>Clotilde tries to stop her from going up the tower, of course. "Oh, I'm sure milord wouldn't wish to be disturbed," she says with a laugh, inserting herself between Sieghild and the stairs.</p><p>Sieghild's been trained in the basics of swordplay like most noblewomen, but she acknowledges she probably wouldn't come out on top against this middle-aged matron, even if she had a sword. "Why don't you ask him?" she suggests. She puts her hand over her heart. "I would naturally abide by whatever he says."</p><p>Clotilde is up there for quite a while. When she returns, she's no longer smiling.</p><p>#</p><p>Hubert von Vestra is still staring out over the parapet when Sieghild joins him. The wind is stronger up here on the roof, whipping at her skirts and his coat, carrying the cries of gulls and terns.</p><p>"Good morning," she says. "I hope you slept well."</p><p>He turns to look at her. The muscles around his mouth are drawn tight. His eyes are sunken in shadow. But then, they'd been like that yesterday, too. If the black bruising under his eyes has grown blacker, she can't tell.</p><p>Moreover, he looks<em>—present</em>. There's a spark of life to his wary, searching gaze. If eyes are windows to the soul, she's taken her grubby hand and banged it on the glass, and something on the other side has stirred.</p><p>"I won't beat about the bush," he says. "I spent in you last night. I want to know—"</p><p>"Oh, you don't have to worry about that." She puts two fingers to the inside of her left wrist and concentrates for a moment. The prophylactic tattoo there shimmers into visibility for a moment, before fading once more. "I won't let another child go through what I've gone through."</p><p>His jaw only tightens further. "And what hardship has the sole daughter of Edelgard of Adrestia gone through? You who were born to ease and prosperity, all your wars already fought for you?"</p><p>"Asks the man who made me an orphan at twelve."</p><p>"Severin von Gerth died in a perfectly ordinary housefire," he says automatically.</p><p>"Have some respect for my intelligence. My father <em>just happened</em> to die within a month of my mother? Alongside several of his prominent supporters? Right as his challenge to my mother's succession decree was gaining traction? I may have been a child, but I'd heard the mutterings even then!"</p><p>She's genuinely angry now—not on Severin von Gerth's behalf, but on her own, because in her eagerness to score a hit on Hubert she was willing to refer to that man as her father.</p><p>Edelgard, she can acknowledge, had at least tried. Sieghild remembers the way her mother would drop into her rooms at odd hours, one week late in the evening, another week over the lunch hour, to keep her company for a little while as she played or studied. Over the years, under the grinding torment of her two Crests, Edelgard had gone from walking to limping, limping to a wheelchair, the fire in her eyes dimming, the blankets on her lap multiplying. Sieghild had learned not to go up to her, knowing she would only get a few preoccupied words or an absent nod in response to whatever childish marvel she wanted to share. It was easier to keep her eyes on her task; that way, she might imagine that her mother's attention was still on her, or at least, that her mother had yet to close her eyes and doze off.</p><p>Severin von Gerth, on the other hand, had never regarded his marriage as more than a political contract, and Sieghild as the stamp on it.</p><p>Hubert regards her coldly. "Do you think your life would have been <em>better</em> if he'd lived? Do you hunger for the throne that desperately?"</p><p>"So you admit you killed him," she presses.</p><p>"You would have been a <em>puppet</em>," he spits out the word, ignoring her, "on House Gerth's string. I cannot expect consideration for the <em>empire</em> out of you, but do you imagine they would have treated <em>you</em> kindly? They would have wrung every drop of use out of you. Do you not know your history? Do you not know what happens when the Imperial in-laws infest the palace like grave-worms—"</p><p>Realization, a truly incredible realization, hits Sieghild. She laugh aloud. "Oh, saints, you've been projecting all along!"</p><p>Is there anything better than leaving him at a loss? Her anger puffs away. She reaches out and strokes an idle finger down his lapel. "I know my history, I assure you. My tutor taught me everything of Emperor Edelgard that Emperor Edelgard did not teach me. Of course you don't feel any guilt toward me—you think you killed my Lord Arundel."</p><p>He has no reply to that. Sieghild fingers the first brass button on his coat. She undoes it, in a flash of sunlight on metal, and moves down. Hubert's eyes cling to her hand; the rest of him is frozen motionless. "I can't complain," she continues. Flash. "I've never been smuggled across countries like a crate of goods." Flash. "I've never been given over for experimentation by my own uncle." Flash. "I didn't live a decade under the thumbs of my exploiters." Flash. "That's the benefit of having outlived the point of my existence by the age of twelve, I suppose."</p><p>She meets his eyes. "No, I can't complain," she says softly, hooking a finger under the exposed buckle of his belt. "It would be so crass to complain. I should find something better to do with my tongue."</p><p>In one swift motion, she drops to her knees.</p><p>She takes him into her mouth under broad daylight. The sun warms her shoulders; the wind chills her spit. She looks up through her lashes, and he's looking at her too, his expression akin to agony. She takes him deeper.</p><p>His hands grip the crenelations, the tendons standing out. When it's over, there's a small smear of blood where his fingertips had clung.</p><p>Sieghild takes out a handkerchief and wipes her mouth neatly. The taste of semen lingers in her mouth, bitter and faintly salty, like tears.</p><p>"I'll have to write to the capital," she tells him. He doesn't respond; his eyes are closed. "They were going to send a ship for me a week from now, before the autumn storms. I need to tell them that won't be necessary. I think now that I'll stay for good."</p><p>She looks out over the parapet, at the gray, empty sea. "We obsolete relics ought to stay together."</p>
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